Today, me, mommy and Leona the Rat Baby are sick. We all have sniffles and coughs, but on days like this, mommy is the nicest! She lets me watch movies and drink milk as much as I want to because she feels too shitty to argue with me. Also, she doesn’t get off the couch and we get to snuggle a lot! She tells me she loves me, and that I’m her favorite little man in the whole wide world, and don’t wipe your nose on my couch again, and I tell her she is my favorite big girl in the whole wide world, and she says she’s not that big, but whatever, and we snuggle some more. You see, there are days when mommy is not so horrible. Maybe I should lay off the old bag a bit. It’s day two of her week of sobriety–she claims this is the reason she is sick, by the way–and I have to say, I’m pleasantly surprised by her reasonably light demeanor.

Leona, on the other hand, is not doing so well. I watched mommy change her diaper today, and that girl’s ‘gina is fuh-LAMING. Bright red. Rashy. Swollen. Look, I try not to look at The Rat’s ‘gina, because it’s weird, but today I couldn’t turn away. It brought back awful memories. Not too long ago, I too had a bumpy crevasse and red, rashy, swollen balls, and I cringe when recalling the things mom would do to try to make me feel better…like hot baths. Oh good, almighty God, I would rather a wasp nest get shoved up my ass. Or using the cheap, highly scented wipes for kids with asses made out of resilient textures like gravel or sandpaper (to this day, no one has ever shoved a nose close enough to my ass to catch a whiff of the powder fresh scent anyway, so what is the point?) Might as well spritz the buttocks with some Chanel No. 5. Oh, and we can’t forget blowing on my ass to try and…what? Give me an erection? I never understood that technique, and I’m not sure why my howls of utter pain didn’t send the message across that it wasn’t working. So, my point is, I felt Leona’s pain, so for the whole day today, I’m not going to call her a hillbilly because of that one, extra-large top tooth that is screaming for a Deliverance reference.

I think that maybe I will end up a master-manipulator some day. I have been mastering the art of the toddler barter, and I do a nice job of sucking mommy and daddy in sometimes. Like during lunch today. Mommy was making mac ‘n cheese, and I wanted to stick my finger in the cheese pouch. She let me do it once. It was delicious. Salty, processed, orange utopia. I wanted more. She said no. But I wasn’t going down like that.

Me: Please, mommy. I just want one more lick.

Mommy: No.

Me: Why not? Just one more lick.

Mommy: No.

Me: Please, mommy. Just gimme some and I’ll relax.

Mommy: No.

Me: Okay, mommy, gimme a deal.

Mommy: The deal is, no more licks. And I’m done talking to you because you keep asking the same question.

Me: Okay, deal, but just one more lick, mommy. Please?

Silence.

Okay, so maybe my bartering skills could use some improvement. I never got that lick, plus the bitch put peas in the mac ‘n cheese. Personal foul, mommy. Not cool.

Today marks the first day of an entire week that mommy will not drink. I am torn between wanting to call her bluff and wanting to go stay with Gramma Jett and Papa Tim for the next seven days. Mommy minus wine or vodka is a terrible idea, and frankly, if I could figure out how to unlock the antique hutch with all the liquid niceness in it, I would spike her fucking bran flakes. Alas, this is not possible, and so I will build a fort and hide in it with all my stuffed animals and wait for the storm to pass. At this very moment, she is civil enough…you know, doing laundry, unloading the dishwasher, giving me snacks and milk when I demand them. But it’s only 8:45 a.m. Undoubtedly, this is her coffee buzz in full effect. Around 1 p.m., it will wane somewhat, and as I get closer to needing a nap, she will get closer to being a bitch, and our worlds will collide. She will drag me into time-outs and re-set the kitchen timer thirty-seven times because I will be throwing daddy’s shoes across the room instead of sitting nice and quiet, thinking of what I’ve done wrong. I will call her a bad mommy, and she will call me a Little A, which means Little Angel, I think, or maybe it’s short for Little Awesomeness. She calls Leona a Little B sometimes when she is screaming bloody murder before her naps, and I think that means Little Booby-Freak, because that fucking rat is STILL hanging off the nipples and she’s about to be one year old. Clearly, we know mommy loves her more because I was clambering about those flap-jacks at eight months, dying for a dribble, and all I got were visions of tumbleweed and sand in my ears. So sad. Dried up like the Mojave. Anyway, back to the bigger problem. Mommy’s attempt at sobriety.

So, I will take a nap around 3 p.m., and then it will be coming upon Happy Hour in our happy home, only, there will be no happy, only long, dry, hours for days to come. Then the irritation and shortness of temper will kick in. I will try to ride the dog like a horse, and mommy will threaten a time-out. I won’t listen, and instead of putting me in a time-out, she will declare her seriousness, and tell me she is going to beat me if I don’t leave the dog alone. I will take this as a challenge. I will kick the dog, and then run, and she will chase me with hair-raising venom words and psycho eyeballs. I love this game of chase. That element of danger–or, antagonizing my sober mother–really gets my blood pumping.

Hmm, what else? Oh. Let’s talk about lunch time two days ago. It was very interesting. By interesting, I mean total bullshit. Mommy made tuna fish sandwiches for Leona and I. Here is how the conversation went upon being presented with two triangles of squishy canned fish and bread:

Me: What is this?

Mommy: Tuna fish.

Me (sniffing): I’m not gonna eat this. Take it away.

Mommy: Fine, leave the table. No snacks and no milk before your nap.

Me: And no treats after dinner. And no dinner, either. And no movie or popcorn after my bath. Nothing. Nada. Zilch. Zippo.

This always throws the parental unit for a loop, you know, when you punish yourself to extremes before they are able to indulge in the pleasure of doing it themselves. Also, you sorta get away with being a sarcastic prick, because who can really peg sarcasm in a three-year-old? Therefore, mommy did not have a response to this. Heh, heh.

Two minutes later, Leona was flinging her tuna squishies on the floor. And all mommy said was, Gus, let the dog in so she can clean the floor. What the fuck is that about? I don’t eat my tuna sandwich and I get the book thrown at me (or I throw it at myself, whatever). Leona hurls her shit on the floor and mommy barely raises an eyebrow. This is classic Mommy Loves the New Baby More than Me crappola. And this isn’t self-pity, people. There are lots of reasons I know that I am not the favorite. Leona cries, and mommy picks her up and kisses her all over the place. I cry, and beg to be picked up, and mommy says she has to finish plucking her eyebrows. Sometimes she doesn’t even make up an excuse–she just ignores me. I lightly tap Leona with my fist, I get a time-out and a date with Mean Mommy. Leona sneaks in some hair-pulling and I shake her off me like a river crab, I still get a fucking time-out. Oh, I must have been antagonizing her. Leona monster-shits herself, mommy sings a song and dance-carries her down the hall, off to her magical changing table where there is cooing and smiling and lubrication and music boxes the whole diaper change through. I get a little piss on the front of my pajamas because there is something really funny on T.V., and I am threatened with those awful rubber underpants because big boys don’t go pee-pee in their pants. And I have to sit back and worry that they’ll put those rubber underpants back on me and I will go back to sounding like a fat chick in running pants when I walk down the hallway. This would be a tremendous blow to my pimp game on at the park. It’s a really mean threat.

Anyway, it’s time to sign off. Mommy is going through my toys today and organizing shit. This is very atypical behavior for her. I’m sure it has something to do with keeping her mind off of a giant cup of vodka and diet coke. Six ice cubes. Two squeezes of juicy lemon.

Ball smashing is when mommy makes you wear a tee shirt, a long sleeve tee over that, and a hooded sweatshirt over that, and tries to cram you into your car seat without adjusting the straps. It makes for a very tight ride, but more importantly, it makes for tricky business when whoever is strapping me in goes into the scrotal area. Jaws-of-life metal
buckles on tender, testicle flesh…need I say more? Why yes, I probably should.

G.G. (Gramma Grace) has been here for about a month helping out because daddy is invalid. Oh, wait, mommy is shaking her head. He’s not invalid, he’s an invalid. Christ, here comes the adjective-noun lecture from mommy. Zzzzzzz…hang on while I take a snooze. Whatever. He’s an IN-VUH-LID. You know, because of his wrist surgery. So, G.G. goes tootin’ around with us sometimes, and sometimes she puts me in the car seat. And when that happens, she squishes my fucking balls in the car seat straps. Two days in a row she did it. The first time, I howled like a venereal-diseased laden whore douching with vodka. The second time, I held my breath, the veins popped from my neck, and instead of screaming, I saw God. (He looked amused and vaguely sympathetic. I am going to give him a fucking knuckle sandwich for not striking G.G. down with a quick bolt of
lightning the next time I see him.) So, while G.G. is not the only one to ball smash, two days in a row is something of a traumatic experience for a tyke like myself, and now I have developed a strong, bitter aversion to having my car seat buckles buckled in that very,
special spot. A complex, if you will. So I kick, and I scream, and I buck, and I beg
for mommy not to get my penis, and she swears that she won’t, but she also told
daddy she’s not going to drink during the week for the month of February, and
it’s February 1st, and it’s Wednesday, and it’s 3:30 p.m. and she is sucking on
a glass of zinfandel. Way to be strong, you crazy, drunken bitch. And may I reference a previous blog, entitled Fucking Liars. So, forgive me if my faith has weaned in the honesty of the parental unit as of late. Get. Off. My. Balls.

Anyway. G.G. leaves on Friday, and I hope my balls get a much-needed vacation from the clinching and cinching. She will be missed, because she’s been sleeping with me in my new, double-big-boy bed every night. I asked mommy, who will sleep with me when she leaves? Well, Snoopy, of course, she replied. Snoopy is my stuffed dog that is not a beagle
that I stole from Sienna that reeks of urine most of the time even though I have never peed on him directly. Not a great transition. I love to cuddle with human beings, not balls
of furry piss. But, whatever. Maybe I will sneak into Leona’s room and steal some of her clean, sweet-baby-scented stuffed animals for a change of pace. Or maybe I can jack her from her crib and have HER sleep with me. She’s kind of a whiny bitch in the night, though, and I need my beauty rest. Either way, there are going to be some nights of unrest for mommy when this all transpires.

Also, my new favorite movie is Marmaduke. If I have any readers out there that fall into the 5-and-under demographic, let me just say, if your parents are pissing you off, watch this movie. According to them, it’s fucking terrible. The acting, the writing, the uber-cheesy cinematography…it all sucks. You can see daddy seething on the inside when
he asks me what I want to watch and I exuberantly cry, Marmaduke! So, I will watch
it until they pretend to accidentally delete it from D.V.R., and then I will proceed
to Sharpie the couch and maybe The Rat to hail the injustice. Ha! And I’ll do it in February, on a Wednesday, and see how mom handles the angst.

It was a party up in here this past weekend. Papa Cool arrived from Michigan on Wednesday night, so mommy and Uncle E and daddy and Auntie Jamie could take him to get drunk at a Zinfandel tasting in San Francisco on Saturday, but the party started way before that. On Thursday night, Auntie Jamie, Uncle E, Sienna and Lucien came over for dinner, and well, mostly drinks. It was a zoo. Sienna didn’t nap at daycare, so she was about as sweet as vinegar pie. Lucien tipped over mommies triple vodka diet in the bathroom during his bath with Leona. Papa Cool spent three hours trying to start a bonfire, and by the time there were actual flames, nobody wanted to be outside. Leona kept bee-lining for the oven when mommy would open it to check the lasagna. Daddy got home late and cranky because he was stuck in traffic for an hour. By the end of the night, everyone was pissed off and tired. And, mommy left the kitchen a mess. Looked like a family of orangutangs had a Boogie Nights bash in there on Friday morning. Plus, the Caesar salad stunk the house up to high Heaven, so we all woke up to the putrid, overwhelming stench of garlic. Milk and Cheerios and garlic…mmm.

NEWS FLASH!!!!! Leona is about to cut her fourth tooth. WOO HOO, right? Right. Who gives a shit? Do you know how many teeth I have? I can eat steak, and bacon, and Slim Jims, but ohhh, Princess Rat Baby gets another tooth and mommy is so excited you’d think she’d won a lifetime supply of designated drivers. I can’t do anything these days to compare to The Rat’s futile accomplishments. If she takes a big, stinky dump, mommy beams with pride. What a good poop, baby girl! Mommy is so proud of you! You must feel sooo much better now! Me? I get yelled at for pooping in my kiddy toilet these days. Mommy tells me she is sick of emptying my stinky crap into the big boy potty, and if I don’t start doing it myself she is going to throw my kiddy toilet in the garbage. Once upon a time, my parents baked me a fucking CAKE for dumping in that thing. You see how shit changes, yes? You see how The Rat has ruined my life? I get in trouble for pooping in a potty that is rightfully mine, a potty that is specifically designed and created for asses like mine to dump in. Some kids don’t even poop in a potty until their four years old. Maybe mommy should think about that. Yeah. Think about that mommy before you start finding steaming piles of turds in your fucking purse.

Moving on. I drank some mouth wash yesterday. Mommy vows she is going to child-proof the house better, but I think she is going to wait until Poison Control gives her the green light to take me in to get my stomach pumped. The story is, I had to pee, but daddy was occupying my bathroom, so mommy sent me to her bathroom. And there that big, loose-capped bottle of cinnamon Listerine sat waiting for me, right on the sink counter. So, I took a sip. It was so good, I prepared for an afternoon of chugging. I ran to mommy’s bedroom door–I could see her sitting in the living room–and announced that she NOT COME INTO THE BATHROOM NO MATTER WHAT! And then I slammed the door shut. I heard mommy utter a hell no, and come stomping down the hallway. I ran in to the bathroom and tried to drink more before she came barging in the bathroom, but I got nervous hands and spilled it on the floor. Dammit! So close! So she looked at me with the we’re-going-to-shove-fingers-down-your-throat-to-induce-vomiting look, and I panicked. How much did you drink? she asked, stuffing her nose in my mouth. Tell me now! How much? And I wished I knew the answer that would prevent her from gagging me to death while hanging my head over the toilet, but I didn’t have that answer at that very moment, so I just looked at her with wide eyes and shook my head. Eventually, she calmed down, but not before yelling at daddy about putting the caps back on shit so the kids don’t get drunk on mouthwash and die, which is actually how I would end my life given the option. Then I snuggled up with the old man with some fresh breath and a buzz. Someday, someone will understand that this house is a death trap, and I am not fucking kidding, and Child Protective Services will whisk me away to a tropical paradise where all the girls have long, straight black hair and smell like coconut, and my milk comes with little umbrellas that double as eye-pokers for Leona.

Anyway. Mommy is giving out eye-droppers of Tylenol to Leona because her big, bad, ferocious fourth tooth is giving her a fever. I am going to watch where she puts it and hope the cap doesn’t go back on tight. Chug-a-lug-lug, me likey the drug.

I am really sick of taking naps. And I am really sick of having to scream for an hour before mom and dad finally look at one another, solemnly shake their heads, and exchange the “fuck it” eyes. You know what, guys? It’s not that big a deal. You need to pick and choose your battles, and you know I will go down fighting. And it’s not becoming of an adult to tell a child that if he doesn’t take his nap, he will never get another treat ever again for the rest of his life. I know this is crap. If you want me to keep the poop in the potty and the piss in the bowl, you have to give me treats. Toddlers have no functionality as little beings without treats. And it’s so feeble of an attempt to get me to shut my eyes for thirty minutes that I almost feel sorry for the miserable pricks. Why do parents think it’s okay to nurture honest, loving offspring with lies? It’s a pile of stinky, hypocritical bullshit, and my mom and dad own the biggest shovels in town.

For example.

Daddy told me once that the toe fungus creatures from the Lamisil commercial would crawl into my bed and chew on my feet if I kept on touching the flatscreen. Points for creativity, but come on. Mom used to regularly inform me that if I stuck my fingers in the vents of Leona’s humidifier, sharks would bite them off. Sharks? In the humidifier. Insulting. Once, I pulled the egg carton off the kitchen counter and eggs broke everywhere on the floor, evoking an instantaneous urge to run my fingers through the perfectly gooey yolks. Mom fuh-reaked out and ran for the wash cloth and soap, shrieking that if I moved or touched my mouth, mean chickens would grow inside my tummy and peck their way out and I would bleed and it would hurt very, very much. While I knew this was a slight fabrication of what Salmonella can actually do, I was not completely immune to the idea of chickens with pointy beaks getting their cluck on in my belly. I had a bad experience with a rooster once, and mommy knows this, and she is sort of a bitch for hitting below the belt with that one. And then, there are the usual, day-t0-day lies that I just go with and even repeat back to them when they ask. If I play with the door handle in the car, I will fall out and get run over by a really big truck. If I don’t keep my annoying little paper bracelet on at The Jungle (a very rad indoor jungle gym nearby), a stranger will take me away and I will never see my family again. Which, depending on the circumstances of my life at that point, could be the third greatest day of the year after my birthday and Christmas. Oh, and most recently, mommy “calls the police” when I pretend that I am drinking beer from my sippee cup. And then she tells me to go pack my bags because they are coming to take me to jail in five minutes, and jail is a place where you get locked in a cage with poop sandwiches. Not cool. So I pretend to cry, only I know how to bring real, fake tears, and then she feels bad and gives me a hug and says she’s only kidding. So, I get the last laugh. Would you expect anything less from a son cut from the cloth of lying bastards?

Well, it’s nap time. I think I’ll go easy on the old lady today. She looks pretty hung from her sushi date with daddy last night.

I love me some birthday cake almost as much as I love a hot Asian cutie sucking on a lollipop, but let’s just take a minute to talk about how the cake doesn’t taste quite as good at SOME OTHER BITCH’S BIRTHDAY PARTY. Okay, I take that back, because Auntie Jamie will kick my ass, and I really don’t think my sweet, little, toe-headed cousin Sienna is an actual bitch, but…it’s the principle of the thing. Yesterday it was Sienna’s birthday. It was a bit more mellow than the drunken, no-kid-food frat parties that mommy and daddy throw when I celebrate a year, but it was cool. I did get my ass kicked by a four-year old when we set up a wrestling ring in the living room, but whatever. There will come a day when he won’t have ten pounds on me or a 6” reach advantage (that kid has some crazy fucking monkey arms, dude), and he’ll be whining like a girly-man at a monster truck rally when he sets his eyes on my sexy mug at a birthday bash. Bitch. I digress. Happy birthday, Sienna. You got some cool shit. I look forward to all the sharing you will
bestow upon me in the near future.

Talking about Sienna brings up a very sensitive issue that has been nipping me in the ‘nads for some time now. We have a guy re-tiling one of our bathrooms right now, and his name is Raul. Naturally, I am curious about anyone who rolls up in here and starts using power tools inside the house, so I asked mommy yesterday, what’s his name? And she said Raul. And I said, oh, Wah-oool. And she said no, RAH-oool. Ruh, ruh, RAH. And I was like, yeah, I know, are you deaf, bitch? That’s what I said! WAHHHH-OOOOOL. And she shook her head and looked at me like I smelled really bad, muttered some shit about at least I don’t have a lisp, and then she said, you know, Sienna is five months younger than you and she can pronounce her “R”s beautifully. Maybe you will need a therapist. And I was thinking, fuck yes I need a therapist, but it’s not because I can’t fucking say Wah-oools name right, it’s because my prick mom likes vodka in her coffee and hasn’t a sensitive bone in her soft, jiggly boddy. Oh, yeah, I went there, Mom. Take your meanness and inject it into the cellulite in the backs of your thighs, and stop bitching about being a fat-ass if you don’t want to do something about it. So fucking WHAT if Sienna can enunciate words like “sparkle” with perfect ease…I can eat dog food and like it. If you insist , mommy dearest, on making me feel inferior all the days of my life, I will likely bring an automatic weapon to pre-K someday—if i don’t get kicked out because I can’t say Wah-fucking-oool.

What else? Oh, since we are getting that bathroom re-tiled, I get to use the one in mommy and daddy’s room, now. There are many things for me to get into in there. Daddy’s shaving gel. Mommy’s make-up brushes. Expired prescription drug bottles. (Ask her about the time she had to shove her fingers down my throat for twenty minutes. She is not the best child-proofer in the universe.) And toothpaste. Oh, baby, toothpaste. Gramma Grace (a.k.a. G.G.) was in there yesterday (she is here helping out for a few weeks while daddy is crippled), and I had to poop. So I opened the door–I gotta poop, get out!—and she obliged. (Hey, I need my privacy. And promptly, most of the time.) Five minutes later, she came barging back in the door to bust me with a fresh tube of Crest. I was two-handed-squeezing that shit right down my throat, and it was soooo good. Sweet…minty…squishiness…it would only be better if I was tonguing it out of a Korean girl’s belly button. Anyway, my sweet treat was confiscated, and later, G.G. was reading the back of the tube to a disinterested mommy about how poison control should be contacted if children under the age of six consume toothpaste. Oh, he might grow a second head then, Mommy mused, not taking her eyes off the television. Fuck you, mom. Yeah, I MIGHT grow a second head. Or maybe a third and fourth testicle. Or an ass tumor the size of a cantaloupe. And then how would you feel when I went on Dr. Phil to tell the world that you didn’t. Give. A Shit. because The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills was on that day?
Do you all see what I have to endure day in and out of my life? I’d rather be in foster care.

So, on that note, I’m going to watch some football and lick the salt off mommy and daddy’s chavelas. I refused a nap today, which means I’m going to be in rare form by the
time our guests arrive. Tomorrow I have to go to Beauty and the Beast at the AMC with Sienna and mommy and Auntie Jamie. Mmmm. Awesome for me. A princess movie. I’m bringing eyedrops for everyone’s Diet Cokes so we can get the fuck out of there before the Beast even meets the Beauty.

She didn’t respond to this question. But I knew the answer. She was a lot frustrated. She’s a lot frustrated most of the time because I make her this way. She tells me all the time that I need to just relax—like when I’m barking loudly while I’m jumping on the couch, or careening around the kitchen island on my scooter—but when I tell her to relax, she gets pretty pissed off. I get the broken wine glass eyeballs. My thing is, I don’t get why they get to piss and moan and yell and scream and threaten to beat me all day long, and me? I can’t do fucking shit in return. So I’m supposed to just sit there with my mouth shut while you tell me I don’t get my baba before my nap JUST because I kicked The Rat three times when you told me not to? That’s hilarious. Guess what? If you want to yell, I will scream back until my veins are popping out of my neck. If you want to smack my ass, I’m going to throw a punch. This is an equal-opportunity household, bitches, and I’m not going down without a fight.

In retrospect, I was not very good today, which I suppose is more the norm lately. I wrote on myself with a black Sharpie before dinner, and mom told me that it was going to be stuck on my arm forever. Which is fine, because it sorta looks like a T-Rex. Badass. And of course, the bitch scrubbed it so hard it felt like a sandpaper licking in the tub. I was like, hey! That hurts! And she said I should have thought about that before I played art school on my forearm. And I said, I don’t even go to school! And she gave me a dirty look and said that’s because only good boys can go to school, and you are certainly not one of those. So I told her I was going to turn her into a cow. And she rolled her eyes and said, go ahead, see if I care. And then I was stumped, because I really thought the cow thing would work, so I started spitting water at her. Her eyes flashed seven shades of angry, and she dared me to do it again. I like a good dare, but she wasn’t drinking tonight, so I knew to tread carefully. I spit it in the other direction instead. Gus, that’s disgusting! she crowed.
Stop drinking that water! Your butt is dirty—it’s like drinking your poo-poo butt! And I was like, AWESOME! I have been asking her if I can eat poop for like eight months. Like
every time I go. Mom, can I eat that poop? The answer is always the same, but tonight I found a loophole, and it just goes to show I’m smarter than the average little shit.

Speaking of poop, I have had something of an itchy ass lately. I have been wiping my
own butt for a while now, but sometimes, I just miss a spot. And mommy and daddy are pretty good about ass checking before I sit on the couch to put my pants on (heh heh), but the poop patrol is starting to let shit slip through the cracks (HA! I know, I know, I’m here all night). Yesterday, I was itching something awful, and daddy noticed that three of my fingers had disappeared up my rear. He yelled to mommy in the kitchen that my butt was dirty and it needed to be wiped better, and she yelled back to be her guest. Daddy, who just had a bone graft on his wrist last week, held up his cast and gave her a smug look. This pissed mommy off I think. She swigged her 32 oz. vodka diet down and I heard her mutter something about fucking paraplegic. I don’t know what this is, but it might have something to do with the hole in her cup. Anyway, she lubed my hole with some Vaseline after a good wet wipe, and I was ready to do my Rag City Chick dance. Yeeeeaaahhh. How do you spell relief? L.U.B.E.

Anyway. American Idol is on. I love watching mom try not to curse at Steven Tyler when I’m in the room. That’s two people she has to not swear at on Wednesdays and Thursdays. I seriously can’t believe she’s sober right now.

Many of you have nagged and prodded mommy over the years to get me a blog. And so it shall be. The Gusman has arrived at www.theuncouthson.com. Get your Mott’s on, tip that sippee of arsenic, and let me hear you say it’s about fucking time.

For those of you who have been in the dark, here’s what your virgin ears and eyes have been missing. I am Gus, short for Augusten, named after some drunken, girly-man writer with freaky dry hands that mommy was obsessed with when she got knocked up with me. I am three and a half years old. I have a mommy and a daddy and a pit bull named Brisket and oh, a little sister, Leona, but you can call her “the rat.” I do. She is two years younger than I am. I’ve been bitching about my life on Facebook since I was two months old, and for good reason. I was born into this world a bastard. It took two years for my parents to get their shit together enough to get hitched. This was a very good thing. The wedding was great. I shook my groove thang. I ate cake. I slow-danced with mommy. And for a while after the big day, I was living the good life. You know, the only child good life.
And then, one day, shit changed.

I’ll cut straight through the bullshit. Roughly three weeks after our camping trip to Lake Pillsbury with Auntie Jamie and Uncle E in 2010, mom started raging through the house at three a.m. like a drunken sailor, slamming windows shut and cursing all the curry-stewers on the block with a very sophisticated level of profane and derogatory language. She inhaled Jack-in-the-Box instead of Marlboro Lights for three weeks straight, drank diet Vernors instead of coffee, and ate the shit out of all my animal crackers. I seriously have not seen them since. I thought maybe she had an advanced case of brain-eating syphilis. I thought some amoxicillin and a sixer of ale would chill her the fuck out. I was wrong. It was not syphilis.

It was much, much worse. She’d been inseminated by my father.

Enter the rat. And the story of my life. Shunned by the world of only children, I have been forced to welcome the terrible part of the “terrible threes” with open arms. Leona has wrecked EVERYthing. It used to be me and mommy and daddy and the pit bull and now, there is a whole bunch of screw you, Gus, going on and it makes me want to drink a Mott’s ‘n tequila before I give myself a swirly. Fuck my life.

To be specific, many things are no longer fair. Leona gets all the soft blankies. She gets the booby. She gets to be called “sweet, baby girl” and “princess” and mommy talks to her in cute, funny voices. She gets gentle sponge baths and mommy doesn’t get water in her eyes. She has TWO music toys in her crib, and one is rightfully mine. She gets to cry without being told to “stop whining or go in your room.” ME? My sheets are scratchy. They only cost $1.98 on clearance at Target. Thanks, mom. Cheap bitch. And instead of the booby, I get three-day old pulled chicken that is dryer than a granny crotch. I am called “punk,” “little shit,” and “do you want another time-out?” Mommy does not talk to me in cute voices. Rather, she puts as much anger and venom into a kind of quiet, hissy, “knock it off!” so as not to disturb the little rat hanging off her milk jugs. My bath time is barely chaperoned by an adult anymore, and when it is, mommy has confiscated my squirty toys with leftover cold water in them and she squirts me if I do anything that annoys her. If I cry when she dumps water on my head, I am told to suck it up and not be such a girl. Then I get squirted. Nothing is ever The Rat’s fault. And I am going to fight this utter bullshit. I will not succumb to a life of second best-ness. I am going to go down swinging like the crazy bastard I am.

This blog provides me my battle ground. As much as I’d like to kick mommy or daddy’s ass sometimes, they are just bigger and stronger, and booze makes both of them (especially mommy) freakishly angry. All I have are my words. And I can spit some venom, fuckers. So please visit. Say hello. Empathize. Send me some cake. I love cake./

So, that is all for my introduction. It’s time to take a nap. Before I go, though, I need to address something I came across in my Blogging for Pimps with Drunken Mommies research. It relates to profanity within a weblog. Apparently, there are some blogging forefathers out there that think cussing is a lame substitute for intelligence. I just gotta say, try and be three again, motherfucker. Profanity is my religion, because what am I supposed to call my mother when she tells me she can’t get me my milk until she’s done nursing The Rat? A female dog? I think not. I am The Uncouth Son. But, whatever. I’m not everyone’s cup of tea. I know this.